Tired
by FloreatCastellum
Summary: Life is exhausting without Fred.


The problem with grief is that no matter how much sleep one seems to have, one is always tired. When anything beyond lying in bed feels like running up hill, what use is working, or trying to enjoy yourself? All you can do is sleep, and think about the one you have lost.

For George, the first few weeks he had been able to think of nothing else, but now he found it was slipping from his mind. Other things were starting to bother him again. He would drag himself out of bed, force himself to shower, Floo to work as though in a trance and realise that Verity had added up yesterday's takings wrong. This would piss him off and he would stare at the ledger for a while, because he couldn't really be bothered to do anything about it, and did it even matter anyway, and could he just trust Verity to do it for him or would she cock it up again? Then he would have to open the shop and all the little brats that would run in would have such piercing, screeching screams, and he could barely move through the shop without things being launched at his head, and Merlin people could be so entitled and rude. He would notice a spill in the corner or some snotty kid stuffing Skiving Snackboxes into his pockets and he would ignore it, because he really couldn't be bothered and Verity should be looking out for it anyway.

Then he would realise that he hadn't thought about Fred all day and he would feel guilty. And then he would realise that despite the noise and colour around him, he could quite easily curl up in the corner and sleep, separate from it all, simply because he was so exhausted.

Lee had got him a deck of cards, Quidditch themed, and suggested playing together. George had replied that he was too busy, though he was sure that they both knew deep down that wasn't really true. Sometimes in the evenings, he thought he could play solitaire with them, but he couldn't be bothered to get off the sofa and cross the room to get them. He could have summoned them, but he didn't feel much like doing that either. So instead he would lie on the sofa listening to the wireless without really hearing it, until he would decide it was late enough so he would go and lie in bed instead.

Those were his days and they were much the same from one to the next.

People did make an effort to come round, but he felt like they were babysitting him. Plus, they so obviously felt awkward about it, trying to think of a reason or an excuse for visiting, that he found himself supremely irritated when their eyes welled up or their heads tilted or they acted all excited when he told them he had gone to a Quidditch match. Obviously they were just pleased that he was out of the flat and doing something that people found fun, but he didn't think it really counted because he was always forced into doing those things by the people that were babysitting him, in some kind of unbearably annoying vicious circle. Though on reflection, it was perhaps worse when people like his Mum or Percy came round, because they were so honest about why they were there. Mum had suggested talking to Harry because he understood grief and losing people and George thought that was perhaps the most annoyingly patronising thing he had ever heard. It had actually made him laugh, the idea of the pair of them sitting in awkward silence wondering how to cheer the other up.

One or two people had even tried tough love and told him to pull his socks up and get on with life, because Fred wouldn't have wanted him to wallow and he had his whole life ahead of him. At first George had told them to fuck off but that became too draining so now he just let them think that they had inspired him until they went away. People couldn't win whatever they did, which made him feel bad but at the same time you would have thought that they would just stop trying by now.

He felt like it had been a long time since it had happened, but the future felt so much longer and it just seemed so tiring.

There had been glimpses where he thought he might be ok again, like a day at the beach where he had blurted out a joke without realising, or when he found himself singing along to the wireless, and then he would get all hopeful and think that maybe life could be normal again. But then he would think, 'I can't wait to tell Fred about that.' The guilt would come back.

It wasn't that he thought he didn't have a right to be happy. Of course he did. Enough people bleated on about it in that boring simpering tone. He just didn't think it was right to live a life without him there. It had never even occurred to him that Fred wouldn't be there when he turned thirty or fell in love, or even when he himself died. They had always amused themselves with bets and theories as to who would be the first to discover they had an illegitimate child, and they had both agreed that when it came to telling Mum, they do the talking for the other, because having a baby was punishment enough without having to listen to Mum too. Well now who would tell Mum when he got some random bird pregnant? He'd have to do it himself. All those stupid scenarios that he had imagined, even some he hadn't, suddenly had a big Fred-shaped hole in them, singed at the edges like a burnt photograph. It was impossible, it seemed, for his future to be complete.

He knew he should appreciate the people coming round, but unless they could bring him back what was the point in them? They couldn't help. This wasn't something that could be helped. It just was.

When Angelina knocked on his door, he braced himself for the usual. He peered at her through the spyhole, and his heart sank as he imagined the speech she was going to give him about how worried she was, how he had to move on, how Fred always like to laugh, all that stuff.

Instead, when he opened the door, she looked sheepishly at him with her deep brown eyes and said, 'I'm sorry, I didn't know who else to go to… I can't cope.'

He almost started laughing there and then, because who on earth thought that he was capable of cheering someone up in this state. But instead, he gestured for her to come inside, to his flat where he hadn't bothered to do the washing up or water the plants or pick up the blanket that had fallen off the sofa. No one ever said anything about this, of course, but their eyes always lingered sympathetically. Luckily, Angelina didn't seem to notice.

'D'you want a drink?' he asked.

'A coffee would be amazing,' she said. 'I'm so tired.'

He nodded, and pointed his wand at the kettle. She had flopped onto the sofa, her face pointed to the ceiling and her eyes closed, her braids sprawled across the back like roots. He didn't really know what to say, so he didn't say anything. He couldn't be bothered.

That was ok for a bit. There was silence, except for the trickle of hot water into mugs. 'I don't have any biscuits,' he said at last, when they were halfway through their drinks.

'That's ok,' she said. 'Probably for the best. All I do is eat now. Can't stop myself. I look really fat.'

She did indeed look rather plumper than when he had seen her last. He thought about reassuring her and saying she didn't, but he couldn't be bothered.

She looked at him miserably. 'I wish I was one of those people that grieves by losing their appetite. I thought I would grieve elegantly with a black veil and red lipstick, but it's more like pyjamas and endless garlic bread.'

The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. 'I wish I was one of those people who grieves by throwing themselves into work,' he said. 'I've been thinking of opening the shop an hour later because I can't be arsed to get out of bed.'

'I'd offer to help, but I can't be arsed either.'

He noticed that she was studying his face very closely, and he felt annoyed, because he knew that look well. She was searching for Fred.

But she surprised him. 'You haven't been shaving, have you?'

'Leave off,' he grumbled, dreading the tough love. 'It's only been a few days.'

'It's ok,' she said. 'I haven't been shaving either. It's just easier to hide my legs than it is to hide your face.'

'Look at the state of us,' he said. 'You've got fat and I've become a lazy tramp.'

'No offence, but this is not the therapy session I was expecting.'

'Well what were you expecting then?'

She looked down at the dregs of her coffee, moving the mug slightly so the last of the liquid swilled around the edge. 'I miss him,' she said at last. 'I miss us. I miss how everything used to be.'

'We can't have that again,' he said. 'Ever. It's gone.'

'I know. But I want it. Selfish, isn't it?'

He considered. 'I suppose it can't be if more than one person wants it.' He thought that was probably wrong, because Mum had always called him and Fred selfish, and they had been. But it seemed like One Of Those Things You Say. 'And you are allowed to be selfish,' he added, for good measure. 'He was your boyfriend.'

'Well, ex,' she said. 'Only just, but still, I don't think I can claim he was my one true love when I dumped him.'

'What?'

She stared at him. 'He must have told you,' she said, her eyebrows raised in surprise. When he slowly shook his head, she continued. 'Like, a week or two before the battle.' Still, he stared at her, and still she continued slowly. 'At my place. I decided to end it because he never took me seriously.'

'No, you must be wrong,' he said firmly. 'He would have told me. He said he was seeing less of you because you were getting jealous of other women.'

'What other women?'

They stared at each other for a moment longer, then broke into bewildered, uncertain laughter.

'The cheeky sod.'

'He always did know how to talk bollocks.'

They covered their eyes and their shoulders shook as they laughed, this silly secret from the grave they had uncovered, ludicrous and inconsequential, they could almost see his shameless shrug and cocky grin. 'What?' he would have said. 'A man's got to keep his pride.'

'Why didn't he tell me, though?' George asked, that creeping guilt returning. 'We told each other everything.'

Angelina snorted. 'No you didn't.'

He frowned at her. 'We did.'

She raised an eyebrow, pursing her lips slightly. 'Oh, really? You told him about Jayne, did you?'

'That's different, he fancied her, it would have hurt his feelings.'

'And what about the incident with Oliver and the sock?'

'I don't think we need to go into that,' he said, grinning.

'No, I think we should. Are you honestly saying that you told him about that? You promised Oliver you wouldn't, after all.'

He was laughing again. 'All right, I get it. We had our own lives.'

Their grins faded and silence fell. 'You did,' said Angelina quietly. 'And I'm sorry, I shouldn't come round here looking for stories about him.'

'That's what you're here for, is it?'

'Sort of.' She paused. 'I suppose I just wanted to talk about him normally.'

'Without everyone doing this?' He cocked his head to the side and smiled kindly.

Angelina shrieked with laughter. 'Yes! That! Merlin…' She stopped her giggles and rested a lightly clenched hand against her lips, nodding softly with concerned eyes.

George chuckled. 'Don't forget…' He placed a hand on his chest and tried to contort his face into one of sympathy, but ended up unable to control his laughter.

'It's just shit, though, isn't it?' said Angelina eventually. 'I thought it would be more... Meaningful. Powerful. But it's just shit.'

'Did you love him?' He wasn't sure why he had asked her this, but she didn't seem surprised.

'Oh, no. Well, not like that. Of course I loved him in a way. But we were always on and off, weren't we?'

'Yeah, but I just sort of assumed you'd make it,' he said. 'And it must be strange for you. He cared about you a lot.'

He was worried she would cry, but instead she just smiled weakly, her eyes glazing over slightly. 'He did, didn't he? He was a rubbish boyfriend, but a good friend. I was so lucky to have known him.'

'And what a life he led,' said George quietly. 'I'm trying… I'm trying to keep the shop going for him. But I'm so tired.'

'I'm tired too,' she said. 'Not having him is exhausting.'

'I thought it would be better by now. I thought I would be less tired. But perhaps this is it forever now.'

'Maybe,' she agreed. 'We'll just have to get better at being tired then.'

It was so nice, they both thought, to have someone who needed them. She reached for his hand, and squeezed it gently. He squeezed back.


End file.
